Page 17 of Uxpectedly Ever After

“Gas odor reported at the bakery next to the cocktail bar,” I relay. “Manager called it in twenty minutes ago.”

Morgan nods, weaving through traffic. “Full evacuation protocol. Priestly, Foxton—evacuate the surrounding businesses. Vetter and I will coordinate with the gas company.”

“Copy.” I clamp down on the surge of panic. Gas leaks are no joke—odorless except for the rotten-egg additive, and all it takes is one stray spark to blow the block sky-high.

We roll up seven minutes later. The baker’s staff are huddled on the sidewalk, but pedestrians are still strolling by the other stores like nothing’s wrong. My gaze locks on Ember, and my pulse jacks through the roof. It’s just after four, so Clover’s probably inside, maybe clueless there’s a time bomb next door.

I’m out of the rig before it fully stops. “I’ll take the bar,” I bark at Brenna, not giving her a chance to argue.

I catch the faint stench of mercaptan halfway to the entrance. That rotten-egg smell is enough to set my teeth on edge. The second I push through Ember’s door, I spot Clover behind the bar. She looks up, eyes widening at the sight of me in full gear.

“Banks? What—?”

“There’s a gas leak next door,” I cut in, adrenaline spiking. “We’re evacuating the whole building. Now.”

She doesn’t waste time arguing. “How bad?”

“Bad enough to clear everyone out. You need to get at least a block away.”

Her chin lifts in that take-no-prisoners way I’ve come to love and hate. “Navy, get the back door locked up and meet us out front,” she calls to her coworker. Then her voice carries to the handful of customers. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re going to need you to please gather your things and exit the building. Your drinks are on the house. There’s a gas leak next door, and we need you out of the building ASAP.”

She’s got this no-nonsense authority that leaves zero room for debate and that voice does things to me. Dick getting hard things. Even in a crisis, she’s cool as ice, and I can’t help feeling a surge of pride watching her handle it.

“Any pilot lights? Stoves? Water heaters?” I ask, eyeing the back bar.

“In the kitchen,” she says, already heading that way. I follow—no chance I’m letting her go alone.

In the kitchen, she quickly turns off the gas to the range while I check my monitor. The readings are elevated but not in the explosive range—yet.

"All clear in here," I tell her. "Let's move."

We head back out front, and the block has already turned into controlled chaos. My crew’s roping off the sidewalk, and the gas company just arrived, bright safety vests on. Clover stands next to me as I guide her across the street, my hand pressed to her lower back. I’m on duty, but damned if I’m not touching her in this moment.

“How long do we need to stay out here?” she asks, scanning the scene. There’s tension in her shoulders, the wheels in her head spinning a mile a minute.

“Could be hours,” I admit. “They have to find the leak, fix it, and then we sweep every building before letting anyone back in.”

She nods, already thumbing on her phone. “I need to call Theo. And check if Navy got everyone out safely.”

I leave her there to get an update from Morgan, my mind torn between the job and the urge to keep her glued to my side. Ten minutes later, I circle back and find her corralling the neighboring business owners like she’s run citywide evacuations her whole life.

“They’re saying at least three hours,” she explains, voice carrying above the chatter. “The gas company’s searching for the source, and the fire department will test each building before they give the all-clear.”

A chef in a stained coat looks panicked. “We’ve got perishables—”

“No one’s going inside until it’s safe,” Clover answers firmly. “The captain said once it’s contained, they’ll allow one person per business to lock things down.”

I hang back, letting her take charge. This is a Clover I’ve never quite seen—levelheaded, commanding, stepping up to keep everyone calm and informed. It’s sexy as hell, honestly, and I feel my dick give a twitch at the worst possible time.

Yup. Even in the middle of a potential explosion, I’m gone for her. There’s no escaping it now.

For the next couple hours, I bounce between handling my assigned duties and swinging by the evacuation zone to check on things. Every time I head back, Clover’s at the center of the chaos—arranging coffee for displaced customers and staff, negotiating with neighboring businesses to share outdoor seating, even wrangling a local band into giving an impromptu show on the sidewalk. Anything to keep people calm and entertained while they wait.

“You’re pretty damn good at this,” I say the one time I catch her alone, leaning against a streetlight with a clipboard she must’ve snagged from somewhere.

She looks up, a flicker of a smile tugging at her lips. Her hair’s up in one of those messy buns I’ve only ever seen in the mornings back at her place. “Crisis management’s basically bartending on a Friday night with bigger stakes.”

“Somehow I doubt most bartenders would handle a gas leak evacuation like you.”

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